His Arranged Wife (Mafia Brides #9)

PROLOGUE

The Ranawat estate stood like a fortress against the Mumbai skyline, its towering walls a testament to power and legacy. Inside the private conference room, two of the city's most dangerous men sat across from each other, the weight of their shared history thick in the air.

Devraj Shah leaned back in his chair, his calculating gaze fixed on Raghbir Ranawat. "The government's new task force isn't going to disappear, Raghbir. They're coming for all of us."

"I'm aware." Raghbir's voice was measured, controlled. At sixty-two, he was still a formidable presence, his steel-grey eyes missing nothing. "Which is why we're having this conversation."

"Unity," Devraj said, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. The Shahs and Ranawats had been rivals for three generations. Now, political pressure and government crackdowns were forcing impossible alliances. "The families need to show a united front."

"Unity requires trust," Raghbir replied. "Something we've never had."

Devraj smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Which is why we need something permanent. Something that binds our families beyond mere agreements."

The door opened, and Saroj Ranawat entered with tea. Her elegant saree rustled as she moved, her face carefully neutral as she placed the tray on the table. Behind her stood a young woman, barely out of her teens, her eyes downcast.

Devraj gestured toward the girl. "My youngest daughter, Nimisha. Twenty-one, educated, obedient."

Nimisha's fingers trembled slightly as she folded her hands in front of her, but she didn't raise her eyes. She had known this moment was coming. Her father had prepared her for it the way one might prepare a lamb for slaughter—with gentle words and an iron will.

Saroj's sharp intake of breath was almost inaudible. Almost.

"You're proposing a marriage alliance," Raghbir said, his voice giving nothing away.

"Your eldest son is unmarried. Thirty-three and still without an heir." Devraj's tone was matter-of-fact. "Nimisha would make a suitable wife. She's been raised in our world, understands discretion, and knows her duties."

"Samarth won't agree to this." Saroj's voice was tight, her composure cracking just slightly.

"Samarth will do what's necessary for the family," Raghbir said, his gaze still locked on Devraj. "As he always has."

The door slammed open with enough force to rattle the windows.

Samarth Ranawat entered like a storm—all controlled violence and lethal grace. At thirty-three, he was everything his father had crafted him to be: ruthless, brilliant, and utterly untouchable. His tailored suit couldn't quite hide the predator beneath, the man they called The Executioner.

"You summoned me." His voice was cold, emotionless, as he took in the scene before him. His gaze swept over Devraj, then Nimisha, lingering on her for a fraction of a second before dismissing her entirely.

"We're discussing terms," Raghbir said.

"Terms for what?"

"Your marriage to Miss Shah."

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

Samarth's laugh was dry, humourless. "You're joking."

"I don't joke about legacy," Raghbir replied, his tone brooking no argument.

"I don't need a wife." Samarth's jaw tightened, the only visible sign of his anger. "I've made that clear for years."

"This isn't about what you need. This is about what the family needs." Raghbir stood, squaring his shoulders. "The Shahs and Ranawats need to present a united front. A marriage alliance accomplishes that."

"Find another way."

"There is no other way." Raghbir's voice hardened. "You are my eldest son. This is your responsibility."

Samarth's dark eyes blazed with fury, but his voice remained dangerously calm. "You want me to marry a stranger to seal a business deal?"

"I want you to do your duty to this family," Raghbir said, stepping closer. "The same family you claim to protect. The same legacy you've killed for."

Nimisha stood frozen, her face burning with humiliation. She was standing right there, and they were discussing her as if she were a piece of furniture. A transaction. A means to an end.

"She's a child," Samarth said dismissively.

"She's twenty-one," Devraj countered, his voice sharp. "Old enough to be a wife."

"I won't do it." Samarth turned to leave.

"Then you're not the man I raised." Raghbir's words stopped him in his tracks. "You're not the son who swore to put family above everything. You're just a selfish boy who thinks his comfort matters more than our survival."

The silence stretched, taut and suffocating.

Samarth turned slowly, his expression carved from ice. "This is about legacy, is it?"

"Legacy. Survival. Unity." Raghbir met his son's glare without flinching. "Call it whatever you want. The outcome is the same."

Saroj stepped forward, her voice strained. "Raghbir, perhaps we should discuss—"

"There's nothing to discuss, Ma." Samarth's cold gaze swept to his mother, and something flickered in his eyes. Disappointment, perhaps. Or betrayal. "If this is what the family needs, then this is what the family gets."

He looked at Nimisha for the first time, really looked at her. She was beautiful—devastatingly so, with delicate features and eyes the colour of honey. Too beautiful. Too soft. Too breakable for the world he inhabited.

"But don't expect me to play the devoted husband," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "I'll marry her. I'll give the alliance the families need. But that's all you're getting from me."

Nimisha's throat tightened, but she kept her composure. She had been raised to be strong, to endure. This was just another burden to carry.

"When?" Devraj asked, satisfaction evident in his tone.

"Soon," Raghbir replied. "Before the month ends. We'll make it grand—show the world our families are united."

Samarth didn't wait for dismissal. He turned and walked out, the door closing behind him with controlled precision that was somehow more terrifying than a slam.

Saroj's face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. She excused herself and followed her son, leaving Nimisha alone with her father and soon-to-be father-in-law.

"You'll make a good wife," Devraj said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Remember your training. Obedience, discretion, and silence."

Nimisha nodded, not trusting her voice.

She was going to marry a man who looked at her like she was a mistake.

Three weeks later

The Ranawat estate had been transformed into something out of a fairy tale.

Thousands of flowers, crystal chandeliers, and enough gold to make even the wealthy guests pause in admiration.

The wedding was a spectacle, a statement to the underworld and legitimate society alike: the Shahs and Ranawats were united.

Nimisha stood in the bridal suite, draped in a heavy red lehenga embroidered with gold thread. The dupatta covered her head, the weight of it pressing down like a physical manifestation of her future. Her hands were decorated with intricate mehndi, her wrists heavy with gold bangles.

She looked like a bride.

She felt like a sacrifice.

"You look beautiful, beta," her aunt said, adjusting her jewelry. "Samarth is a lucky man."

Nimisha said nothing. Luck had nothing to do with this.

The wedding ceremony was a blur of rituals and mantras. She walked around the sacred fire seven times, her hand clasped in Samarth's. His grip was firm but impersonal, as though he were completing a business transaction.

She dared to glance at him once during the pheras. His face was a mask of indifference, his jaw set, his eyes focused somewhere over her head. He was going through the motions, nothing more.

The guests watched with knowing eyes. Some pitied her—the Shah girl marrying the notorious Executioner. Others envied her—marrying into one of the most powerful families in Mumbai. None of them knew the truth.

This wasn't a marriage. It was a merger.

When it came time for the vows, Samarth spoke them like he was reading from a contract. Each word was measured, precise, empty of feeling.

"I, Samarth Ranawat, take you, Nimisha Shah, as my lawfully wedded wife."

Lawfully wedded. Not cherished. Not beloved. Lawfully wedded.

Her own vows came out as a whisper, her voice barely audible over the pandit's chanting.

Saroj sat in the front row, her expression carefully composed, but Nimisha caught the woman's gaze lingering on someone else. Kritika Mehra, Samarth's childhood friend, sat several rows back, her eyes red-rimmed, her smile forced.

Nimisha lowered her gaze. She understood now. Saroj had wanted Kritika for her son. This marriage was a disappointment to more than just the groom.

The reception was even more elaborate. Politicians, businessmen, and underworld figures mingled freely, toasting to the union that would reshape Mumbai's power structure. Nimisha sat beside Samarth on the stage, her smile plastered on, her hands folded demurely in her lap.

He didn't speak to her. Didn't even look at her unless absolutely necessary.

When well-wishers approached, he played his part—placed his hand on the small of her back, offered tight smiles, accepted congratulations with nods. The moment they walked away, he removed his hand as though her touch burned him.

"Smile," he murmured once, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "You're embarrassing us both."

She smiled wider, even as something inside her cracked.

The night stretched on endlessly. By the time the guests began to leave, Nimisha's face hurt from holding her expression, her body ached from the weight of her clothes, and her heart felt like a stone in her chest.

Shaurya, Samarth's younger brother, approached them as the crowd thinned. Unlike his brother, Shaurya's smile was genuine.

"Welcome to the family, bhabhi," he said warmly, touching her feet in respect before she could stop him.

"Thank you," she whispered, grateful for the kindness.

Samarth's expression darkened. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

Shaurya's smile faltered, but he nodded. "Of course, bhai." He glanced at Nimisha one more time. "I hope you'll be happy here."

She hoped so too. But hope was a dangerous thing.

The master bedroom was as cold and imposing as the man who occupied it. Dark wood furniture, minimalist décor, and a massive bed that suddenly seemed far too intimate.

Nimisha stood in the center of the room, still in her bridal lehenga, unsure what to do. The door opened, and Samarth entered, already loosening his sherwani.

He looked at her briefly, then moved to his closet without a word.

"Should I—" she started, her voice small.

"Change into something comfortable," he said, not turning around. "You look ridiculous."

The words stung, but she swallowed the hurt. Moving to the attached room where her things had been placed, she found a simple cotton salwar kameez and changed quickly, her fingers fumbling with the heavy jewelry.

When she emerged, Samarth was at his desk, already absorbed in paperwork. He'd changed into casual clothes—a black t-shirt and track pants—looking more like himself than he had all day.

She stood there, uncertain, her heart pounding.

Finally, he looked up, his expression unreadable. "You can take the bed."

Her brows furrowed. "Where will you sleep?"

"My office. I have work to do."

"But—"

"Let me make something very clear, Nimisha.

" He stood, his full height and presence suddenly overwhelming in the space.

He walked toward her, stopping just close enough to be intimidating.

"This marriage is a political arrangement.

Nothing more. I fulfilled my duty to my family by marrying you. Don't expect anything beyond that."

She met his gaze, forcing herself not to look away even as her insides trembled. "I understand."

"Do you?" He tilted his head, studying her like a specimen. "Because you're looking at me like you expect something from me. Romance, perhaps? Affection?"

"I expect nothing," she said quietly.

"Good." He stepped back, grabbing his laptop from the desk. "Keep it that way. We'll attend functions together as required. We'll play the part in public. But behind closed doors, we're strangers who happen to share a last name."

"And if—" she hesitated, hating herself for asking but needing to know. "If you need... if you want..."

"If I want sex?" His blunt words made her flinch. His smile was cruel. "I'll let you know. Until then, stay out of my way."

He left without another word, the door closing behind him with a soft click that was somehow worse than a slam.

Nimisha stood alone in the massive bedroom, still wearing her bridal mehendi, her hands trembling. She looked down at her palms where her new husband's name was written in delicate henna.

Samarth.

She had married a man who couldn't stand to be in the same room with her.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she finally allowed herself to cry. Silent tears that left no trace, the kind she'd perfected over the years. She cried for the future she'd lost, for the love she'd never have, for the prison she'd willingly walked into.

Tomorrow, she would be strong. Tomorrow, she would be the perfect Ranawat daughter-in-law.

But tonight, alone in this cold room, she allowed herself to break.

Just a little.